The Day Destiny Died
by Jissai
Summary: He's going to watch you burn today Emrys, no remorse, no regret. Nothing but betrayal shown on his face while fires consume you.
1. Though My Sorrows Came To Cease

Almost finished reuplading all my fics.

Warnings: torture implied, noncon implied, and future one-sided slash. Now, off to upload chapter 2.

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You can feel the flames lick the soles of your feet and the smoke coat the insides of your lungs like acid. You can't stop coughing as tears begin to once again flood your eyesight, from the sadness, betrayal, or the smoke, you're not sure. Either way, you're broken. Your mind and body are broken, and all that is left of you is a bruised, beaten, violated, bleeding former shell of yourself bleeding all over the pole you're bound to.

Your hands strain against the metal bindings that are keeping you and your magic to that pole, where you will breathe your last, as your hands and body are shaking, reminding you of your pain. But you're not in pain. No. You're too busy straining your neck to find the stoic, golden figure above you on the balcony. The golden god you were promised to since the day you were born, '_my magic is yours.'_ But he rejected you, abhorred the very sight of you once he found out what you were. He eyes once sky blue went very dark that day, looking at you, accusing you, of being a monster.

Oh how the gods must be laughing at you now. To think it was divinity, '_destiny', _that gave you to him. All those promises, all those praises. '_Emrys…' _

But all of that died that day. First your love, then your friendship, trust, hope, bond, _'destiny_', gone the minute he pulled his sword to your neck. No regret, remorse, nothing of your former friendship shown in his eyes as he watched the guards drag you away. Nothing as you were forced to kneel before his father as he condemned you to death. Nothing as he had the guards beat you, torture you, violate you to prove to his father that he cared nothing for you. Only disgust shown in his eyes as he watched the guards put their hands all over you.

And now with those same eyes he's going to watch you burn.

Tears cloud your vision once again as you scream in agony, the fire consuming your feet and the smoke your lungs. Magic burns the back of your eyes as it tries to save you from your fate, only to be caught again and locked away by the metal cuffs, '_gifts_', specially forged for you. Darkness replaces your tears, consuming your vision, _'his stoic, emotionless gaze,'_ and you fall into the abyss right before you feel your magic shoot into life once more.


	2. My Heart May Still Mourn

Author Note: Yes, this is a reupload. Back in the summer I took all of my 50+ Merlin fics down from the site. I am now reuploading them. I miss the hundreds of reviews T.T

Thank you Bailieboro for finding the files for me!

Each line break represents an original chapter ending. The story will be confusing and dwaddle for some time, but will pick up soon. It was my first fic.

Warnings: torture, one-sided merthur.

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**Chapter Two**

The pain stops. Your tears stop.

Everything stops your emotions, thoughts, feelings, hatred, anger, _betrayal._

Everything.

Your magic's protecting you, its master, from your own. You feel the hum of its presence as it calms your emotions, your memories, your mind. Piece by piece, it takes it away. It's masking it, shelving it for when it can be sure you can bear the burden. You relax under its presence, grateful for the gift of ignorance it bestows upon you. Its arms wrap around you like a mother protecting her young. You are oblivious to the smoke around you, while in those arms.

The fire does not faze you, neither do the screams. You do not burden yourself as you sense the fear in the people around you; as their swords and arrows fail; as they run, trying to escape. The sound of their pleas does not reach your ears before your magic plucks them out of the air, away from your ears, lest they disturb you. You are oblivious to the stench of death around you. The bodies. The blood. _They mean nothing to you…_

Then that voice. _Something you should remember. _It's calling out to you, screaming at you. Unlike the others, it is not pleading for its existence. Unlike the others, it does not sound so distant. No fear is hidden within its words. Anger, betrayal, even surprise is consuming it. Your magic cannot whisk it away as easily as the others; it reaches your ears. _Something you should remember…_

It demands for your attention. It orders you to open your eyes, to face it like the monster you are. And, almost automatically, you do. Sight begins to return to you once more. You find smoke within your lungs, your eyes watering, and bathing the air in a gray, almost sickly beautiful, hue. An unearthly amount of red is all around you, painting the walls, the ground, even adding to your already very red clothing and hands. But, most importantly, red is trickling down the corner of those eyes. Sky blue eyes. Eyes that, as the cloud is slowly being forced from your mind, belong to that voice. 'Is it in pain?' you wonder, surprised by you sudden concern for a pair of eyes that you do not know. Then you notice the face it belongs to. _Something you should remember…_

Instantly, something begins to jab at the back of your mind, sharp as a knife carving a gap large enough for anything to hastily slip through. Thoughts, emotions, memories all flood through, demanding your attention and causing you to cringe in agony.

_Arthur…_

Kneeling before you is Arthur. The Prat. The Prince. Your Destiny. His face is contorted in rage, his left hand grasping a broken sword under your foot. Half of his face is dripping with blood.

Blood. There is so much blood. The copper smell invades your nose and lungs along with the smoke. "Why is everything on fire?"

He stares at you in disbelief, and you expect him to retort and begin another playful banter. But he doesn't, instead pulling the broken sword from under your foot, he sends you falling to the red coated ground below. However, it is not cold, wet stone that greets you, but something soft and wet that breaks the impact of the fall. Then, as you inspect the object, your mind matches another set of eyes to a face. _Uther…_

As your eyes widen in shock, you see the prince standing before you, ready to plunge the broken sword into your chest. You stare back in disbelief, shock, confusion, worry, anger. Finally, as you begin to feel the excruciating last weeks events plunge back into your mind, tears again begin to cloud the corner of your vision, your magic lulls you into an abyss once more. And you are, you realize, grateful to return.

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><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

Murmurs. Someone is whispering near your ear. Another murmur, a response. You can't focus on the sounds, the words. The meanings escape your mind. You feel around for the blanket still covering your mind, and begin to weakly remove it. It does not put up a fight this time.

"…the battle was bad was it?"

There are more murmurs, and you strain to hear them. It's taking all your concentration and strength to hear each sound; let along string them into words, sentences, meanings.

You realize, you are being dragged and panic. Well, you try to panic but you're still lacking most of the mental and physical functions that are needed to get up and run. Hastily you search your brain for the missing pieces, trying to rewire and reconnect those lost abilities which would produce something, anything!

Heat. Something very hot and fiery is growing near you. No, that's not right. You seem to be going near it, dragged near it. The stench of burning flesh slowly begins to invade your nostrils, making something instantly click in your brain. Fire, flesh, _pyre…_

Your grip on the blanket around your mind tightens; you forcefully attempt to wrestle it away. You need it off, now! However, something on the other side is pulling it back, and you begin a tug-of-war with the invisible internal force as you meld in and out of full consciousness.

The heat and stench are growing dangerously near and your grip tightens. You plead with it, beg it, to let go. Whatever it is, halts its pull, and reaches out, caressing your cheek. It's asking you to release it, saying that it will protect you, protect us. But something deep inside you, something you can only barely recognize, whispers a solemn 'no'. You fear giving it full control again, as you watch from the sidelines in a constant haze. _You think it had control before…some time long ago…_

'Are you sure you're ready?' it asks in a motherly tone, still caressing your cheek. You move away from the offending touch as if diseased, to give it a nod of affirmation. It frowns in disapproval, but nonetheless releases its grip and you throw the blanket and bearer, completely from your mind, as a piercing cry bursts from your lips, and everything falls back into place once more.

The emotions, the memories, the family, the friendship, _the betrayal,_ all begin to return to you in a rush of raw force. You remember who you are once more, you remember your purpose, your destiny, _your near death…_

You find your face contorted in sorrow. You are unable to control your body as it begins to shake and wail, a disturbing sound of crying and laughter. It is just you and your memories for those brief moments, too overwhelmed from all your grief to notice, that you are no longer being dragged towards the flames.

Two shadowy figures are standing above you, as you lie prone on the ground shaking, crying. They are discussing something. Someone. Most likely you. Their mouths move but there is too much internal noise for you to hear. You are deaf to the world.

You are not sure, how long you would have lain there crying, if one of them hadn't picked you up and carried you away from the stench and fire. Probably forever.

You sob in the crook of the mysterious man's arm, the chain mail cold to your cheek and eyes. You begin to tell the man, with choking sobs of grief, that he shouldn't be carrying you; you are neither a woman nor weak. Once, the first syllable escapes your lips you cringe in agony; the mental image of that golden man entering your mind once more. _Merlin, stop being such a girl…_

Arthur... Arthur Pendragon. You begin to wail once more, grasping the man's arm tightly, your cheeks and eyes sore from all the tears. _How could he have done that to you?_

The possibility that Arthur might have been killed that day, murdered by you and your magic, doesn't faze you in the slightest. Not really, maybe if he was a different man, the man you knew before he learned of your magic. Yet, that had all been a façade, something that quickly died, if it was ever there to begin with. Once he had learned _what_ you were, he had turned into his father. _No, he was worse. Much, much worse…_

Arthur hadn't given you a chance, to fully explain yourself to him. That whole speech about who you were, what you were, your destiny, your loyalty, something that you have written and rewritten numerous times, playing all the possibly scenarios in your head, had proved useless. You never expected his reaction to be so…

_Ruthless? _

Arthur. He truly was worse than his father. Where Uther would sentence you to a public execution, Arthur would make sure everything you possessed was dead, well before you stepped up to the executioner's block. Where Uther forgave his closest friend, a sorcerer-

_Oh Gods, Gaius! What happened to Gaius? Gwen? _

You cannot stop sobbing now. _Had you ever stopped?_ You mentor ... your friend.

_Do you murder your friends as well?_

You barely notice being laid down on a bedroll, and a warm drink being shoved into your hand. The man's lips are moving again, but you still can't hear them. Why do you deserve to hear? Why do you deserve anything?

'_You killed them…' _are your final thoughts before exhaustion takes over, and your mind returns into emptiness once more but not before you hear the soft, spoken words,

"Should we inform King Arthur?"


	3. As I Fall Down

**Chapter Three**

You know you should have fought back earlier in the day, when you awoke in the tent to find your magic once again bound to the cuffs around your wrists. You should have tried to escape. Tried to run. You should have found some way to distract the knight who greeted your dreary, sleepy eyes before he grabbed you and hauled you out of the tent, barely giving you time to get on your feet. Tried something.

What good would that have done? Very little, and in its place, possibly earn you more bruises and more distrustful glances from the knights around the camp. The knights surrounding the tent are already glaring at you in a mixture of fear and disgust, a few looking ready to unsheathe their swords and lunge at you. Kill you while you are defenseless and scared. Frightened, to be truthful, terrified and confused.

You glance down at your wrists, the cuffs hiding the black and blue bruises decorating them from your being dragged earlier. How did they know you possess magic? You scan your surroundings, the knights, searching for a familiar face.

Oh, that's right. If you had the energy you would have smacked yourself in the head for your stupidity. _You probably massacred all of Camelot, didn't you?_ Of course they would know of your magic. Hell, who wouldn't after _that?_

You are becoming very distracted by the glares of the knights surrounding you, waiting. Their figures seem to blend in to each other, becoming one massive, powerful force, one growing in size as you find it hard to breath. You feel like a mouse cornered by a pride of cats. No, lions. Lions that are biding their time, enjoying the emotions they are forcing from you before they pounce. Kill.

_No, no need to make your stay more unwelcome than it already is._

One of the faces in the mass, curses you in a foreign tongue, spitting in your face. You flinch, but otherwise remain your terrified self, not even shutting your eyes. You've had worse than spit on your recently, so that was nothing. In fact, you want to laugh at the disparity of it. On a grand scale it's probably the best thing you've had on you since-

_Do you really want to remember that?_

'No,' you remind yourself. You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to dispel the memory.

You yelp, as suddenly you are pushed down on your knees, feeling two cold swords against your throat. One of the knights separates himself from the massive red body of fighters and begins to pace around you, and you feel yourself shaking. Too close. Your very sensitive personal space is being violated. There're too many people close to you, enclosing you. You find it hard to breath again. You can't seem to get enough air into your lungs. _Get away from me!_ You find it hard to concentrate on anything, battling an eternal war between your present and past. Your memories are once again demanding attention. Or maybe they are happening now? The memories feel real enough. They threaten you, saying they are going to happen again. Tears begin to fall down your face. _Get the fuck away from me!_

You hear it before you feel it, the sickening sound of bone cracking. The left side of your face explodes in pain, the right meeting the dirt below. Loud shouts. Someone pulls you up off the ground by your hair, screaming in your face. It grabs your full attention, rescuing you from your mind. You almost want to thank him. Almost.

"Answer me sorcerer!" You missed the question.

"Please…stop touching me." Is that your voice? You sound pathetic.

The knight, whose height you swear is growing every second, bellows in laughter. He begins to pace around you again before sending a powerful kick to your stomach, making you double over in pain. He makes some more noise, but you don't think it's directed at you. Hopefully.

Another metal-clad kick meets your gut, and another. And another. You can't even scream anymore. You mouth just opens in agony, ready to make its owner's apparent pain known, before it realizes your voice just doesn't want to be found. Someone else clad in red, picks you up whilst screaming at his surrounding allies, and carries you back into the tent.

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><p>He hasn't left yet. Who he is, you don't know. You don't care to know. You never even looked at his face. You're too busy staring at the back of the tent, trying to forget everything. Maybe if you try hard enough, you may even disappear. After all, things and events once thought impossible have all been making their jolly selves known as of late, why stop the madness now?<p>

"Are you still in pain?"

'No', you think. And once you disappear, you'll never be in pain again.

You hear shuffling and movement behind you, the mysterious knight growing somewhat agitated by your lack of response. Leave it to you to piss off your 'knight in shining amour.' You're just begging to be decorated in more black and blue. No, green as well, you remind yourself, looking down at your now bruised, sickly green wrists. Who knows, at this wonderful rate by the end of the day you'll be a walking, talking rainbow!

You stifle a weak smile. _Well, that's one way of coming out, I guess. _

A faint sound of laughter escapes your lips, and very soon you find that you can't stop laughing. _And you thought your sanity cracked days ago._

'**_Emrys…'_**

Your voice catches in your throat, and your eyes grow like saucers at the recognition of the tone... the name... that telepathic connection.

"Are you in pain, Emrys?" the voice behind you repeats in that same familiar wise, bland tone that has often sent a cold shiver up your spine.

You hastily turn your body around, hissing in pain as you momentarily forget your recent beatings. Your eyes lock on a Camelot knight. Staring in disbelief, this couldn't be him. He's too tall, too old. He looks the same age as you are now. He's sporting the crest of Camelot upon his chest. There is no way in Avalon…

Shakily you find your voice, blundering out the three syllables in disbelief. You have to be wrong.

" Mordred?"


	4. On My Knees

**Chapter Four**

"Mordred?"

His gaze bears down at you, the only way Mordred ever could, unnatural blue eyes piercing into your soul. He's easily cutting you open, laying you out, displaying all your thoughts, feelings, secrets. You try to catch up with him, to shut each door before his hand grazes the knob. He's too fast for you. Anything you hoped to keep hidden, he finds as he dissects your being with a simple glance. You cannot hide anything from him. He's searching for something, you can sense it. You feel his mind rummaging through your own at an alarmingly rate. Since when has he been this powerful?

Finally, he completes his purpose with the same bland, emotionless face, proceeding to collect and wrap up the pieces like a broken toy, discarding them, handing them back into your hands. You can feel yourself able to breath again, finally able to secure the fragile doors of your mind, your being, locking them away one by one. You feel violated all over again.

"Welcome back, Merlin." he drawls with some difficulty, your name unfamiliar to his tongue and foreign to your ear. He never calls you by your given name. Then again, he's never been a twenty-year-old Camelot knight.

You nod in acceptance, not certain how to respond. You don't really register the oddity of the sentence, there was nothing for you to be welcomed back to, you simply want to break the uncomfortable ice. Mordred may be the only one with the answers to your recent questions. Well, the only one that wouldn't use you as a training dummy first. Hopefully. You wince, shifting somewhat on the bedroll, trying in vain to relieve your dull aching ribs. Loud, drunken noises grab your attention from outside the tent, and you scoot an inch in the opposite direction. He's the only thing between you and them, you remind yourself. Better be nice to the little creep.

"Mordred!" You say carefully, trying to conceal any unwanted emotions that might erupt at any minute, make themselves known. All it takes is one small fire to set your mind ablaze. You need to calm yourself, regain your composure and your sense of pride; your sense of self-worth and courage. Then, an image of the prince laughing at such a ridiculous notion slowly bubbles up to the surface, floating there indefinitely. Your breathing hitches, and you screw your eyes shut as you mentally swat the image away.

Mordred continuing to stare at you expectantly from across the tent, arms folded and leaning against the pole that is holding the material off the ground. He is, as usual, giving nothing away as his long hair conceals parts of his face. You regain what little composure you can without causing more pain, either mentally or physically, and stare at the boy, no, young man, avoiding his eyes in case he feels the inclination to invade your privacy once more. You don't think you could pick up the pieces if he had another go.

"Prince… King Arthur is he..." Mordred corrects himself, and you sense a slight ripple in his calm façade. "King Arthur is alive and well?"

You nod in acknowledgment, the news sinking in slowly. Sadly. You don't feel joyful at hearing the news. You feel something else alien to you showing its face, an emotion just now surfacing. Something you never felt before ever!

"Disappointed?" he inquires.

... you stammer, "No..." Your voice giving away the lie, you don't know what to feel, yet at the same time, you realise that you know how to feel.

"And.." you continue, your voice cracking even more as you attempt to gather the needed words without resistance. "...and Gaius, Gwenevere, Lancelot, Gwaine, Elyan."

Your world goes deaf again as the emotions explode from beneath your feet, your breathing becoming irregular and difficult. You continue to see them, their faces, accusing you of their deaths. _Calm yourself Merlin. Calm down and breath._

It takes you several minutes before your mind returns, back to your control. Everything repressed. You push them back further for good measure.

Mordred, as if waiting knowingly for your return, gives his reply.

"I don't know who most of them are Emr...Merlin. As for Gwenevere, only you know that. I wasn't present when Emrys painted the city red with blood ten years ago." He states calmly, a small, slight tug at the corner of his lips. He's enjoying this.

Then something clicks at the back of your mind. _Ten years?_

Just then a resounding, drunken laugh emits from outside the corner of the tent, and the druid boy turns to you with a smile that sends chills throughout your body. That smile is deadly. Poison. Evil. He approaches you and grabs your wrists, dragging you unwillingly to the pole that is dug deep in the earth, fastening your metal cuffs to it.

"I am not your friend Merlin." He whispers in your ear, words drowned in ill intent as the foreign laugh draws near. "Nor am I your savior. Do you remember the last time we met?"

You stare at him in disbelief and panic, trying to summon the memory from your mind, trying to piece the source of his disdain and loathing towards you. You manage to grab the missing piece before it slips out of your hands, your thoughts reeling too fast for you to comprehend. You're over alert with the sudden danger in the air, your exhausted senses panicking.

You hear an annoying sigh from the man next to you, as he brings forth the images for you. He grabs hold of your fragile mind, its pieces already erupting into full panic, and forces your attention to the live images he summons. The memory is nothing but blood and death, druids dying by the swords of Arthur and his knights. Then a small, tiny yet stern voice echoes the walls of the memory, penetrating your mind even further. **_"I will never forgive you for this, Emrys."_**

Realization comes crashing down on you as he releases his hold, and you stare at him begging, in a wash of panic and disbelief; begging in terror and fear, _begging. _A slight smile is painted on his face with this realization, knowing he has brought the mighty Emrys down. You shake in disbelief, and if you had the energy, you would cry.

He glances back at you as you hear the tent flap open from behind, and he whispers to you; "However, I was a child back then. I didn't realize how long eternity would be," he confesses, eyes glistening with malice. "Let's call it, even!"

Then, he exits the tent, as you hear him saying, "Captain!" in acknowledgment of the person, entering. You turn around slowly, the pain of your ribs and face no longer a concern to you. All your attention now directed toward the armor-clad man, swaying toward you, reeking of mead. You stop thinking completely by the time he reaches you, grabbing hold of you.

**"Emrys…"** you are slowly fading away into the most desolate locations of your mind. **"Don't scream too loudly, Emrys." **

The druid's laughter is the last thing you hear before your mind shatters into a million pieces.

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><p><strong>Chapter Five <strong>

To say it is hot and humid, is a severe understatement.

It would be more accurate to accuse the massive disc in the sky of trying its hardest to fry any living creature below, as if it were displeased with its imperfections. Not that that seems to hinder the knights as they ride onwards, continuing along the dusty path towards their destination just above the horizon.

"Ah look, there's Camelot right up there. You do remember Camelot, don't you _Merlin_?" he drawls out in your ear causing you to shudder. You can sense his smirking behind you, triumphant at finally receiving some reaction from you. "Good morning, Emrys." He adds a little too happily, "Glad, you could join me. You've been as silent as the dead, all day."

Then a mental image invades your quiet, desolate mind. An image of the dark-haired druid taunting you with the key he's found, strung around his neck like a prized possession. The key to the safe haven you've hidden yourself away in, somewhere that until now had allowed you to function on minimal effort. Your sanctuary, you could have happily curled in there all day, content with only seeing, feeling and acknowledging the outside world; without the gift of interpretation to understand it; without the memories, emotions and thoughts. You simply accept everything that happens to you in that box, without the repercussions that shortly follow.

_With morbid glee he inserts the key, and turns the lock,… _

You can feel his eyes upon you as you quietly begin to sob; little strength left in your weak body and mind to spare the tears. His arms wrap around you in mock affection as the horse continues to trot on. He's promising you not to worry, that the King will have you killed soon enough.

Finally, when you are quiet again, the druid resumes the one-sided conversation; he'd had with you since the knights first began their journey home. He misses not one detail, not one rumor he'd heard over the years, as you listen listlessly, your eyes blank and broken. Not one report escapes him as he practically sings, in morbid fascination of each horrible, monstrous way; you eliminated one and all in the courtyard ten years ago. You cringe as you hear about each and every man, woman... Child! Not even the tyrant King Uther escaped your wrath. _Yet, you spared his son…_

_No_, you remind yourself, as the last piece of the grand puzzle click into place. Your magic spared his son. Your magic spared Arthur Pendragon. Your magic spared _him_. It mercilessly tore apart the lives of so many innocent people that day to protect you, to keep you away from the flames and regain the control which you had forgotten to grasp. Yet, it did not tear asunder the very reason for those flames. The very reasons why you now feel so hollow, not caring if those flames were to return.

_Why?_

The other side of the coin, you lost it. You know you did. And you don't care. Whatever hatred that boiled underneath the surface has long since calmed. _Dead._ You're too tired to care. _Too hollow_-

Your mental recognition immediately ceases as you stare at Camelot before you! Eyes shocked, as you look upon its once marvelous and grand gates that now lie almost in ruin; the disfigured doors wide open and welcoming like a whore to any impending attack. Hundreds of people surround the area, digging amongst the rubble in hopes of finding a loved one. They're not going to find anyone under there though; no one alive, anyway.

Today, the dead make more noise than the living. Everyone's wearing the same cold, emotionless face. It tells the tales of too many wars, too much grieving. Once, the well of tears and hope dries, a city grows accustomed to death and misery. That is never a good sign.

Not that your mood is anything to compare to that. Your face and eyes are swollen from your bruising and grief. Your entire body is in pain, and each slow movement of the horse causes more agony. Breathing is now a chore. You can feel blood dripping off your wrists from tight, binding cuffs. You don't even have the strength to scream in frustration. _Why haven't you died already?_

If it wasn't for the druid boy, now a man holding you on his horse, you would have fallen off the animal miles ago, hopefully to your death. That's just wishful thinking though._ It hasn't done you any good so far._

"Bloody hell!" A nearby man yells, "That's him!"

The knights ride through the remnants of the city gates, before dismounting to lead their horses through the rubble of the lower town. The man approaches you in disbelief, possibly disdain, as the druid roughly pulls you off his horse despite your body's painful protests. The knights gather around you again, Mordred grasping your hair, displaying you like a trophy to one and all.

One of the knights, who had not taken part in your capture, clasps the druid's shoulders, with a radiant smile too big for his face, "You did it Medraut! We finally have him!" He pats the man on the shoulder once more in a brotherly fashion, before turning his attention to all the other knights surrounding you. "Didn't I tell you? You should have taken this lad with you the first time he was here!" He shouts, pointing to Mordred, then turning to one knight in particular right behind you. He avoids your presence entirely, saying, "You owe me thirty gold coins, Brom!"

So much laughter consumes the small area, that you wonder if you should be laughing, too. Some of it is almost bordering on madness. Relief that has for years been bottled inside some of the men, finally breaks out of its cocoon, spreading its wings. It almost brightens up the atmosphere of the lower town. All the ruin, rubble, dead, the lingering scent of burning flesh and rotting corpses, almost vanish for a few precious seconds.

In your mind's eye, it seems only days ago, that Camelot's finest, on the training grounds or in the tavern, had been laughing with you. You are whisked back, hearing something so normal that your aches and pains almost subside.

_Then Mordred is there again, pulling you back into reality and away from your safe haven, dangling the key to your mind in front of your eyes. _

_He wags his finger in annoyance as if he's disciplining a disobedient puppy._

"**No, Emrys."**

Someone shoves you forward and you barely catch yourself from falling on your face. You moan in protest as all your muscles scream in pain. That only rewards you, with a harder shove and angry scream from behind you. "Move, traitor!" You continue walking forward, wincing in pain at every step as your body pleads to lie down and rest. _Maybe even lie down, curl up, and die._

The pain is probably the only thing keeping you conscious. Your eyelids threaten to close only to be abruptly opened by another bolt of agony shooting throughout your body. The cycle of sleep deprivation and agony continues as they shove you forward through the remains of the lower town.

The numerous survivors continue to search the charred remains, hopes held high of finding a family member or salvaging some clothing or food. Most are oblivious to the mass of knights leading you and their war horses through the town. The ones that do take notice, however, you will never forget. Their faces are ashen and sunken. If someone were to try to kill them now, they probably wouldn't even flinch. They simply stand there, ghosts of their former selves, as they observe with faint curiosity, the laughing noble warriors passing.

A woman's eyes suddenly go wide, recognizing you despite your terrible state; even though it has apparently been years since you have last been in Camelot. Regardless of it all, she recognizes you, and her face goes through so many conflicting emotions. You expect her to give up and her previous hollowed features to resume but finally, she settles on one emotion, her eyebrows knitting tight and empty tears barely falling. She emits a loud scream, a roar, a battle cry, before grabbing a piece of loose board and charging toward you. She manages one strong, passionate blow to your arm before one of the knights decides to restrain her. You wince as the pain in your arm throbs, you arms automatically trying to get out of their bindings to tend to the injury. You are subconsciously thankful the woman was small in stature, for if she could have reached your head, you would probably not be standing.

_Maybe wouldn't be such a bad idea._

You look at the pitiful woman as she is restrained by one of the knights, the druid not too far off showing no emotion. You want to approach her. Tell her that you're sorry. You don't know what you have done to offend her, but you can guess. And, you want to let her know that you are grieving with her. _It wasn't me…_

You're yanked out of your thoughts for the hundredth time by Mordred, or rather 'Medraut,' as he reminds the knights to proceed. Grabbing your hair, he drags you forward in annoyance. You try to look back at the woman, but his hand in your hair, prevents you from looking anywhere but forward. Her screams growing more distant with every step, you resolve to close your eyes, concentrating as you send a silent 'I'm sorry' to the grieving citizen behind you. You hope despite your anti-magic bindings, it reaches her. Somehow.

"**You're pathetic Emrys."**

The castle looks the same it did, the day you almost died. The day your destiny died. Its looming structure casts shadows over the courtyard deserted by the living, populated only by endless queues of the dead. Thankfully, you cannot see their faces. They cannot judge you. You don't have to know who they are, as their bodies are haphazardly wrapped in cloth.

You suddenly feel the familiar pull of destiny, the inborn bond, the rope, you and another share. He's around here somewhere. You are sure. The bond is growing tighter as you near the castle doors, the heavy wooden structures creaking as they are forced open.

Then you feel the mighty pull...

Behind the doors, lies your destiny...

Arthur, the Once and Future King, the man who will bring magic back to Camelot, righting the wrongs of his father...

Arthur, the current King of Camelot, who now rules over a city and possibly a kingdom in ruin...

Arthur who is as cold as the day you last saw him standing on the balcony, watching his friend burn. That man... whom you consider may have become colder since then. _Is that even possible?_

He stands there, poised and strong as he has always been. You know better though, you know him too well. Possibly better than the ruler knows himself.

You can see the battle in those eyes, however cold. You can tell that he is tense with anger just bubbling under the surface, barely under control. He continues to meet your shaky, uncertain gaze, as you are hardly able to control your own emotions. The world is silent around you, nothing escapes the sphere of silence that absorbs both of you.

Nothing but the Prince and his former manservant are in existence...

Then, finally, the internal battle is won, and the former friend speaks...

"Welcome home, Idiot!"

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six<strong>

**Arthur's POV**

You are living on borrowed time. The smoke from Merlin and Morgana's last attack is still coloring the air, making walls, floors, homes, the lifeless forms of those who were unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, everything, a surreal gray. Fits the mood, really.

So many dead line the streets of the upper town, as you did not think it proper to burden the lower one with the deceased; as there was not an inch of earth or stone that wasn't already hidden under collapsed houses or charred bodies. It had taken most of the attack; it had acted as the needed sacrifice for the rest of Camelot to defend and survive. _Though, just barely… _

Sometimes you wish, you could join the queue of dead down there, wrapped in a blanket enjoying eternal slumber. Gods, how long has it been since you've slept? Since you've been able to lay your head down and lull off into another world, a more peaceful world, if only temporarily?

"Arthur?" Your attention moves away from the window, and you lazily look down toward the woman in the room. Your Queen, a nice girl, a decent looking girl, she's not your Gwenevere though.

No, your real Queen lies somewhere else, somewhere unknown and hopefully far away from this ruined city. You never found her body after the attack. You hoped, prayed to all the gods that day, that somewhere she was alive and that she would come home to you.

Eventually, you stopped dreaming of her safe in your arms. She no longer walked through those city gates and into your embrace. That smile, something that made the world right again, no longer haunted your dreams. You accepted her death, placing an empty coffin in the crypt next to your father's. The place your current Queen, if she could be called that, should have been given. Words were engraved along the sides, Semper Amo te. _I love you, always._

"Arthur?" The woman asks again, begging for your attention. What was her name again? Olivia? No, that's not right, Olivia was the Queen three years ago. You are lost in your thoughts once more, trapped in unwanted territory. You haven't had a stable relationship with anyone for a long time. You _couldn't_ have a stable relationship, as you are certain, everyone had an agenda. Everyone carried a hidden poison, a secret knife. They would only wait for the opportune moment to strike you, to tear you limb from limb as the deceitful monsters they are.

You learned that lesson well from Morgana. That was one of the last things she taught you. Trust no one. Everyone was a snake in the grass, lying in wait. It was only the mask you were familiar with. The face could only be glimpsed after your downfall, when they were sure you were dead.

But it wasn't just Morgana who was an excellent teacher, you remind yourself, before the mental barriers you had placed around yourself, locked in once more.

_ That was the one thing that idiot turned out to be skilled at as well._

"I'm sorry, what was the question?" You drawl out, making your disinterest apparent. She is only here to give you a son, anyway. Her eyes stare at you for a moment, betraying her hurt and fear. However, she does not voice it. She knows better. You have never hit her, or abused her in the way many husbands do, but she knows her only purpose here. She is not here to shower you with love, compassion, or to try to receive it. She's aware of the thin line on which she dances.

"There wasn't one, my Lord."

You return your full attention to the outside world beyond the glass window, as she walks away. There's no need to worry about her. She will bear it. They always do.

Then, your eyes catch armored men in red, riding towards the city from a distance. Half of your men have returned. Half, you suddenly want to smile or laugh at the sadness of it all. That has been the best numbers you've had in months. One of the gods must have taken pity on your poor soul this week.

Only half. If your cold heart could spare emotion, there would be a smile upon your lips. The first smile you've had since-

Blue. Why is one of your knights wearing blue clothing instead of armor? You squint, barely making out the lanky body riding beside one of your knights. As they move closer you notice he's bound to the horse. Closer. You could almost make out the face.

_No… it couldn't be…_

You body freezes in place, and you find yourself barely able to breath. Your mind and that one individual's are bound together.

That man. No, that boy can't be him. There is no way, no plausible way that's him. He hasn't shown ...wouldn't show his face in Camelot since that fateful day. The day, the sky cried red with blood. You have been hunting him for years, and not once have you been able to even locate his whereabouts.

Yet, there he is, tied to a horse in the courtyard below you. He doesn't look like he's aged a bloody day, since he massacred most of Camelot. The darkest day of your life, the day you lost everyone. _The day you lost her._

You frown in distaste, in hatred...

It's taking everything you've got, not to go down there and run a sword through the traitor's throat.

"Merlin…" you hiss.

_It's been ten years, Merlin…_


	5. Cold Surrounds Me Albeit I Am Warm

Authors Notes: These are now Flashbacks. Thank you for reviewing Rocky181 :)

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**CHAPTER 8**

_10 years, two weeks ago…_

The early morning sun colors the air surrounding the magnificent city, wrapping it in an angelic hue. The citizens buzz about the streets, hundreds of bodies scurrying this way and that. Hundreds more, new faces never seen before, populate the byways, either to seek refuge behind its walls or to aid in rebuilding the recently regained capital.

Rumors fly faster than the speed of light, telling the tale of the usurped Queen. Murmurs of sorcery trail not far behind. Fear and worry lace each spoken syllable, if not completely drowning it.

If there were any doubts before, concerning the corruption magic brings, there are none now.

To see someone, so loved and kind as the king's ward, turn so vile and repulsive had sealed the opinion of many in Camelot. Far more than was necessary as, it was commonplace now for daughters to bring their parents into court in accusation of practicing the craft. Fathers dragging their sons. Grandparents. Cousins. The courts halls were lined with those accused of sorcery or possible treachery. Better to see a loved one burned than to see them slowly become something so inhumane, so evil, so possessed.

_So deadly…_

All it took, to convince the court of an individual's treachery, was a pointed finger and some harsh words. A simple accusation. A conviction. Four little, terrifying words.

You–Are–A–Sorcerer.

Then your fate was sealed.

Deep down, you shake in terror upon hearing the convictions. Morning after morning. With each new accusation made towards different individuals, you feel as though you are the one being accused. The words sting, they hurt. They terrify. You see your face on each of the accused. It is you who breaks down into tears on the cold stone floor every hour. You, who are on your knees, begging the King to spare your miserable life before you are swept away past the large wooden doors, only to be brought back minutes later to endure another trial. Another face. Another family. Another innocent victim.

As the masses take their leave, you are brought out of your trance, as the Prince lays his hand upon your shoulder. He knows it's affecting you. It's affecting him, too.

"Coming, Merlin?"

You nod, casting your trademark grin, and follow beside him as his equal. Some of the nobles cast their disapproving glances, but it does not hinder your progress. They should be used to it by now.

It's not until you both reach the confines of the royal chamber that the Prince sheds a few years, lifting some of the pressure and burdens of politics off his shoulders. You follow faithfully as he walks over to the window near his bed, supporting himself against the wall with the poise that only a royal could. Only Arthur.

He does not wear his emotions well. He lets nothing penetrate the hard exterior. He gives nothing away.

Yet conflict consumes his aura. You are no fool.

"Something the matter Arthur?"

He grunts in response.

Carefree, you plop yourself down on the royal bed, skillfully ignoring the glaring daggers coming from the window.

"Is that supposed to be a 'yes' or 'no'? I can't read your mind Arthur."

"Don't joke like that."

"Don't joke like what?"

A strange mix of a grunt and cry of frustration fill the room. Or perhaps it was more like a dying cicada? You smirk in triumph._ Merlin 1, Arthur 0. _

"I'm fully aware of your mental affliction, _Merlin,_" the prince informs you, as you plump the pillow a few more times, making yourself more comfortable in some else's bed, "But stupidity does not exclude you from the law."

"Don't worry Arthur," you assure him relaxing on his bed. "You've even said it yourself, how could I be a sorcerer?" You expect a slight laugh or a chuckle to follow the memory of the numerous times you've been convicted of sorcery. However, the humor dies as you notice Arthur's stoic gaze.

You watch as his face falls. His mask slips. The hard exterior cracks. He stares to the courtyard below, seeing the pyres being built. The masses gathering to watch, the condemned led up to the stakes, where they will leave this world forever. He seems almost lost in deep, uncharted thought.

"Not, everyone being burned is guilty of treason. I would hate for one of those loose, lying tongues to send accusations your way."

You sit up in the bed, feeling the air tense as he says those words. It's not often, that the royal spares some compassion for someone other than Athur Pendragon. Not so openly, at least.

"Well, thanks Arthur, I..."

"How _did_ you manage to escape the dungeons, _Merlin_?" he inquires, successfully dislodging the previous conversation. If anything, you think, that would have to be the second best thing the prat was skilled at, next to sword fighting and inviting every possible evil magical creature to try their hands at his life.

He glares at you expectantly.

You smile back.

_Make that the fourth used skill._

You rapidly rummage through your prepared list of excuses, Arthur's sudden awareness of self and his surroundings, coming at the most inconvenient time. Wouldn't be wise to tell the captain of the guard that his security sucks?

_Oh, why not?_

"Dungeon security sucks, Arthur."

He nods in agreement, "Couldn't come up with an excuse?"

"Why? Truth is so much more, far fetched. Do you have any idea how easy it is for someone to escape? It couldn't get any easier if the guards _handed_ you the keys!"

"Merlin..."

"They just fall right back to sleep once the cell door is closed," you continue, arms flailing a little as you talk. "Bleeding hell, I'm surprised they even remember to lock it!"

"_Merlin_."

"And they don't even try to stop you when they see you escaping. I mean, why do they think someone is running _away_ from the dungeons? To avoid the smell?"

"_Merlin…_"

"What is it?"

He glares in silence, giving you the 'it's not _that _easy to escape the dungeons, you know' look.

_Merlin 2, Arthur 0_

'_Yes!'_ You smirk. _'It is!'_

The prince rolls his eyes, finding something more interesting outside the confines of the window than your idiotic grin. "Shut up, Merlin!"

"Hello?"

All focus is suddenly directed towards the kind, familiar face poking her head in through the large oak doors. Arthur's face lights up immediately upon seeing the tea-colored girl. He walks over to her, embracing her. You find yourself feeling a little dejected. A hint of jealousy. She's stealing his attention away from you.

_You want to be in those arms._

When she looks at you, you hide it under your smile, trying to shake the unwanted feelings away. You don't want to be jealous of sweet Gwenevere. It's not her fault, she's found something you can't have. That she's found the other side of your coin, and tucked it neatly in her pocket. Somewhere, you'll never be able to reach.

You attempt to shake the feelings away again, informing the oblivious couple of your departure and something about Gaius, potions, and a leech tank. You should really be happy for them. You know you should. They deserve it. Guinevere deserves it. _Arthur deserves it…_

*happythoughts...happythoughts...happythoughts*

You chant, screwing your eyes shut in concentration. Who needs to be able to see, when there are romantic interests to repress?

* * *

><p>Gaius's eyebrows were not impressed today, quirking in worry as he watched his ward, walk straight into the closed door. It's nothing you could comment on though, as you had, had your eyes closed.<p>

"Something the matter, Merlin?" You hear the elderly physician say in your general direction as you groan in pain nursing your broken nose, door now successfully open.

_Romantic interest successfully repressed._

"Nothing, just had my eyes closed," you manage to squeak, finding not one, not two, but six sets of eyebrows raised in concern over your sudden madness. All five patients were staring at you, eyebrows raised, Gaius's even higher, finding themselves suddenly and strangely concerned over a lanky stranger. They whisper amongst themselves as you wave at them happily, confirming their diagnosis.

You manage to scamper up the stairs and into your bedroom/broom closet before the old man could inquire further, moving the bed to block the door. With all the recent cries of sorcery, you need to be careful. You must be careful! If someone were to even hear a slight suspicious magical murmur, you really would be kneeling before the king, begging. Nothing Arthur could do would save you then.

_Would he save you? _

_Of course,_ you answer back, not worried in the slightest for your sanity. _He wouldn't believe the accusations. He hasn't yet._

You proceed to rummage under the loose floorboard, confident in your answer.

… _and if he did?_

You halt in your progress, almost dropping the magic book back to its dark confines. Still... You ponder the question; everything is calm and quiet in your mind, as you search for an answer, a conviction. Something you would actually believe.

"Yes!" You finally state, "Arthur would save me!"

Ignoring any further probing from your subconscious, you replace the floorboard and open the spell book, searching its pages for the appropriate words. You bat away any further inquiries that come to mind, distracting you from your current task; deciding that maybe there is a reason sane people shouldn't talk to themselves. Then your fingers find the right page and you feel a smile light up your face.

Tonight, you're going to make certain, that the likes of Morgana or anyone else, cannot penetrate the walls of Camelot. At least, not as long as you and your magic live.

**CHAPTER 9**

The ancient language rolls off your tongue with ease, power encased in every letter as it leaves your mouth, instructing your magic to do your bidding. It's as much a part of you as is your magic; those words, born out of magic and the old tongue.

The words twist and turn that magical extension of yourself, enclosing the small section of the city's walls before you, in a tight, protective weave of spells. Running your fingers along the wall, you can almost feel the invisible threads as the familiar hum of its power lulls you into a sense of revelation. Finally, once the threads are woven tight, you bind them permanently with a single, powerful word, '_serva'_, and then stand back in exhaustion, admiring your work.

Yards and yards of magic encompass both sections of the piece of wall, woven so tightly and closely that if the magic were not naked to the human eye, not one piece of stone could be seen hiding beneath it. The walls were strong before, but now they should be impenetrable. You sigh in exhaustion as you feel the slight tingle of the inanimate structure slowly, gently, continually, drain magic from your being. It could never drain you completely however, you rationalize, you have too much magic for that. Finally, you kneel before the structure, enjoying its newly found magical hymn, and carve a small rune just above where it meets the stone floor, completing the spell.

Smiling in accomplishment, you stand before the towering structure, offering a silent prayer to any god that's listening, that you hadn't fucked up the spell. You turn to look at the rest of the infinite wall surrounding Camelot, yet untouched by magic. Groaning, prophesying that this was going to be a long night, you banish the drowsiness out of your eyes, determined to sew the rest of the thousand or so miles of wall with spells and woven, magical words.

Minutes, hours tick by at a snail's pace. The more you cast to protect the city, the more you feel microscopic parts of your being taken from you. It is a small price to pay though. Morgana may return to enact her revenge another day and you may not be there to stop her. This is no time to be frugal.

You feel your energy steadily leave you along with your magic. It will be permanently bonded to these walls for as long as your magic exists; a small piece of you, a gift to the city.

_The things you'll do for the prat._

By the time the sun peaks its head over the mountains, not one stone is left untouched, and Camelot is encased in a calming protective dome of majestic proportions that only those with magic can sense; can fully enjoy. You collapse against the wall, your new masterpiece embracing your fading consciousness and allowing the darkness to take hold.

Someone's calling your name. You're not sure who, where, or how, but someone is. The faint sounds barely reach your groggy mind, but nonetheless, pull you out of the pool of dreams.

Only to drop you into the fires of Hell.

You cannot even summon a scream as you feel fire lick your skin, greedily engorging itself on every ounce of flesh, burning it off your body, curling it brown, to expose the veins and naked muscles underneath; slowly, oh, so slowly... Your death is taking an eternity too long.

_Help me._

The desperate cry almost misses your ears.

_Help me, please!_

"Help me?" They're your words. Your voice is screaming on its own accord.

Finally, a disturbing serene, calm overpowers you. Your entire will is bent into acceptance. Defeat.

You are going to die.

And you are content with that.

_Is this what happens to those poor victims as they burn?_

You are numb.

It feels surreal. You forget that those beautiful, deadly flames are there to end you. Their dance around your body, enchants you. You almost marvel as a child at the bright, fiery colors.

You are content with that. Your death.

Then a booming voice rattles the ground beneath your scorching feet.

_Traitor. Traitor. Traitor. Traitor._

_Traitor. Traitor. Traitor. _

_Traitor._

A slight human touch, a soft, gentle hand reaches through the flames, its soft fingers caressing your cheek, wiping away tears you are not aware that you shed. Her face is barely visible through the wall of flames, yet her selflessness and kind heart pierces through the deadly force as if a god himself stood before you. You gap in awe at its majesty.

_Gwenevere?_

She mouths a solemn 'sorry', _or maybe you fail to hear her_, before she steps back, her image becoming hazy black through the hot element engulfing you. She's there with another figure. A taller figure. Someone familiar.

Her outline embraces the other in a warming kiss.

_Arthur,.._

"No!" The rush of pain returns.

An ugly monster breaks the surface.

_He's your destiny, not hers! _You want to scream.

_She's stealing him away..._

The things you would do for him. The things you have **_done_** for him!

_And he runs to her..._

Her face no longer holds that motherly shine. It is distorted, _and rightfully so_, her skin becoming black and coarse, peeling away to reveal the sinister snake beneath. She is a demon, a succubus. Her eyes look back at yours once more, piercing through the flames with a golden glow, taunting you to stop her, before she takes him away from you forever.

Something inside you snaps, and you wield the flames before you, capturing your death-bringer. The flames are still dancing about you but under your control. You are the master now, as you will be of your destiny.

You shoot the flames forth in a mighty roar, relishing in her screams before you finally wake from the abyss of your nightmare.

"Merlin!"

* * *

><p>"Merlin..."<p>

Is someone calling you again? You unconsciously shudder. You don't think you can survive being burned twice.

"Merlin."

Why can't the voice leave you alone? You don't want to be set on fire _again-_

You're abruptly shaken out of your dream-like state to a waterfall. Everywhere.

"Why am I under a waterfall?" You absently think out loud, shivering slightly, teeth chattering.

Sensing a pair of eyes roll in annoyance, you look around, taking quick mental notes of your surroundings, trying to find the waterfall. At least till that blasted sun stops glaring in your newly-awakened eyes so you can see and think clearly.

"Tree..." You begin, " grass, wall, (magic wall/shield), knights, castle," till you finally find standing above you, " Prat!"

"Oh Hi, Arthur!" You smile.

Forgetting that mind-reading is illegal in Camelot, he grunts rather than talks in response.

You pick yourself up cheerily, oblivious to your tormenting nightmare of just minutes ago, dusting the grass off your clothing and shaking the water out of your ears. Meanwhile, he continues to stand there with his arms crossed, and you absently notice the large empty bucket at his feet.

"What can I do for you, sire?" You ask, giving a mock bow.

His eyes roll once more, "Why did I wake up late with no breakfast today, _Merlin?_"

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER 10<strong>

Everyday you watch them in the courtyard. Holding her hand, he whispers sweet nothings to her. She laughs merrily while blushing. They are so happy together, so very happy.

They are completely oblivious to your misery.

Everyday, you feel yourself slowly fading away. Piece by piece you fall. It's beginning to leave you empty inside. Hollow. The more they are together, the more you are alone standing near the prince's window, looking out at a world of which you no longer feel you want to be part.

It's maddening.

You tear apart your room, destroying the cupboard, overturning the bed. You don't have much to rummage through, but you still search, over and over again. You think yourself bewitched. You were never like this before. This isn't you. You held feelings for your master, yes. You have for a long time, but it was small. It was contained. Long ago, you had accepted that it must stay in its cage. He was not yours to have. That was not your destiny.

Eventually, you give up. Not a charm, a spell, nor a rune can be found in the small room. It must be you. The cage is broken. You've held too much captive in the metal prison, these last few years. The bars have been broken, the door unlocked. Now your emotions are back with a vengeance. You are tired of being the friend, the secret protector. Pretender. You're not content anymore, simply standing by the sidelines, sacrificing yourself whilst receiving nothing in return. You've betrayed your kin for that man. You've almost given your life for him on more than one occasion. She has done none of those things.

_Why should _**_you_**_ hold back any longer? _

By day, you still give your false smiles freely to your friends, envious of their true happiness; their ability to feel joy something you, not long ago held pride in freely giving. It's becoming harder to stop yourself from screaming when you see him hold her in his arms. You find yourself fleeing the room every time their lips touch.

You're losing yourself; you're losing him

No! She's stealing him from you.

_He's yours!_

You survive the same reoccurring dream, the same fiery hell. You watch their forms embrace from afar, you, painfully dying, bound to the pyre. Every night the fires grow stronger. She grows uglier.

Every night, you seize your death-bringer, and engulf the witch in flames. Eventually, that is all you look forward to, that is your world, when you can freely destroy her, and save him. When you can spill all your secrets to him, so that, he will embrace you. Maybe even going a little further.

One of those nights, you wake up from the dream, it had ceased to be a nightmare days ago, and find that you had lit the bed on fire. You quickly put the flames out with a spell.

That night, the dream had been too real. It almost stepped out of the realm of imagination and into reality. And you almost let it.

Flames, you can almost feel them still hot against your skin. Your wrists feel strangely raw from being bound on the pyre, though no bruising is present . Her scream is still ringing in your eardrums. Too real.

That is when you finally snap out of your madness. Some of your pieces fall back into place.

'You must stop this!' your conscience screams. It's gone too far. Your dreams have overstepped their boundary. Next time it may not just be your bed, you wake up to alight. You need to fix this. You silently wipe away the tears that form in your eyes, an image of gentle Gwenevere smiling at you in your sharp mind, gossiping with you in the halls between duties before she became a noble woman. Laughing with you, never at you. She's your friend. She will always be your friend.

You don't want to hurt her.

_She's stealing him from you._

_He's yours._

You scream in the pillow, your bloody cries muffled by soft down under the expensive silk. Arthur had given you this pillow recently, you remember teary-eyed, when Gwenevere asked if you had been sleeping well. You absently touch your face, running your fingers along the lines where you are sure dark rings are present.

"I can't have my manservant passing out in court, Merlin, do you know how that would look? They already think I don't feed you!' A smile.

You're smiling for once this week. Arthur has always been able to lighten any dark abyss, any nightmare with a few simple words, hasn't he?

_All the more reason he should be yours. _

You feel cheated at destiny.

Mind made up, you gather your clothes, slip on your boots, and walk out the door. The waning crescent hovering in the night sky gifts you enough light to find a horse, _that stupid mare Arthur insists you ride_, to gallop into the night. No guards stop you, fast asleep behind their helmets. Not even the faint warning bell pulls your attention away from your destination. Arthur can handle himself for one night if there's trouble, you're sure.

You have a dragon to call.

* * *

><p>It takes some time before your eyes notice the great beast in the sky; a little too long for your thin patience this night. You do not wait for him to acknowledge you before you begin the questions.<p>

"What do I need to do?"

The dragon shakes its scaly head, voice booming from its mighty form, "Do what, young warlock?"

Your voice catches a little in your throat, not feeling safe to speak the words. Or are they still trapped in your heart, behind the bars of the cage? You stumble with the words a second time, tears threatening to emerge. The dragon will be the first person you have spoken to this honestly, about Arthur.

"I...don't want to hurt Gwen. I love her, as a sister, but..." The words feel huge, too large to exit your throat, painful, yet relieving. Your emotions are about to burst forth and flood your lungs.

"Arthur, he... he's mine! He's my destiny! Not Gwen's!" you shout, waving an accusing arm towards no one.

The beast tilts its head ever so slightly, eyes ever seeing, burning bright in the night. Then with a thundering slam that sends you off of your feet, the ancient creature is on the ground, laughing.

It's laughing at you. You pour your heart out, and it's laughing at you?

_Would Arthur laugh at you?_

"This isn't funny, you know…"

The booming laughter fills the night sky. You can barely hear your own voice as it speaks.

"Young warlock..." the dragon barely manages to say between laughter and hysterical cackles, " I think you have misinterpreted our first confrontation!"

The laughing rages on, sending your nerves on end. What was so bemusing? Can you not love someone? Can you not love Arthur? Are you that much a tool of destiny that you cannot be afforded happiness? Your hands fist with rage, and an ungodly roar shoots from your throat, forcing the beast to give attention. You will not be mocked!

"Young Warlock," the dragon begins, a slight hint of mirth in its voice, "You are indeed two sides of the coin. Your destiny is eternally entwined. However..." its head lowers towards you, all laughter gone from its gaze, "What you may feel, have been feeling, is not part of it. Those are your affections and yours alone. His destiny is with the maiden. Your destiny is to keep him safe."

You hear the words, but you do not accept them.

"Then destiny be damned!" You spit out, words unwelcome in your mouth, feeling your magic set your irises aglow.

* * *

><p>You don't remember when the world became so quiet. You don't remember saddling the mare, pushing it onward as the rains come to share in your disappointment. <em>Had you summoned the rain?<em>

You don't remember riding through the city walls, great walls, the magic still humming through the air, welcoming its caster. You don't remember evading the hundreds of guards throughout the streets and clustered within the palace walls. You don't even question why they are there.

You continue to march forward, determination consuming your features. Your destination is all that matters now. Your destiny. You're going to make a new destiny. He will learn all your secrets tonight. He will learn that he is yours. He will accept you, embrace you. Forever. You're going to shape a new course of events. And goddamn, no dragon, no friend, no prophecy, nor any god is going to stop you!

Your palms shoot the chamber doors open in a resounding bang, marching toward the prince standing before you. _He will accept you. _His stoic gaze does not meet you, his back turned against you. _He will love you._ He does not say a word, hand raised steady toward the hilt of his sword. _I have magic, Arthur!_ You think you may be crying by this point, but you're too overwhelmed to be sure.

You reach forward eagerly, your hand hovering over his shoulder to summon his attention.

"Arthur, I have magic!"

Your world goes deaf as he brandishes his sword, cold steel placed against your neck. You almost feel your legs crumble as his enraged gaze meets your crying, emotional eyes. You both stand there for hours...minutes... eternity? Your knees are about to give way.

"No shit, Sorcerer!"

Something inside you breaks. Shatters. Destroyed. The pieces cannot be picked up again. Never whole once more.

"You..." That gaze...that anger in his eyes. "How could you?" You don't need to hear the words, for they are written everywhere on his face. You know him too well. He is the other side of your coin.

"I-I was born with magic, Arthur! I cannot help..." The blade is pressed forward as you feel the red hot liquid trickle down your neck. He is barely holding himself back from massacring you.

_This cannot be happening! It just can't! _

The prince is looking at you as if he's standing before a murderer. A monster. A traitor.

"Is that why you burned Gwenevere in her chamber? Is that why, sorcerer?" Your legs fail beneath you. The room spins, _or are you falling?_

"I..." you forget how to speak.

His blade does not leave your throat as you slip to your knees. He is ready to tear you asunder at any moment.

_Gwenevere,…_

You imagine her burning before you, at your hand, how she would always burn in the dreams. Her face, however, is not of a monster. It is truly Gwen's face. You are the monster now.

_This night, you knew her cries of pain were too real..._

_You killed her. You sent the flames to her bed._

"Is... is she...?" A thundering smack, you're on the floor. You're too overwhelmed to feel any pain. All that matters now is Gwen. Gwen and the mighty prince above you.

"No..." His voice is as wavering as yours, before he dons the stone mask you often see him wear at executions, in battle.

_You're the villain now. _

"I... I have never used my magic against you Arthur! I didn't mean to..."

Then you see it. Two objects placed upon the table behind him, their forms barely sticking out over the surface of the expensive wood. There lies your magic book, flung open. They must have stormed every room in the castle after they found your friend burned. They were looking for a sorcerer. _They found one._

The other is an object you do not recognize. It is not yours. It must have been found alongside your magic book beneath the floorboards. Its crude design and aura speaks of nothing but evil. It's a charm, a curse. A spell meant just for you. _The reason for your dreams and madness. _

_How did you miss it?_

"No..." you stammer. You don't sense the words leaving your mouth, just the breath as it leaves your moving lips.

"Get up, Sorcerer." The flat voice says, not waning in command, in power. Your life is now in his hands now. It will be decided by his blade.

You obey. Your knees vaguely moving to support you in the difficult motion. He eventually needs to pull you up by your collar, blade never leaving your exposed skin. He summons the guards to drag you away.

You cannot speak. You cannot hear. You've forgotten language. All you see is your master growing smaller and smaller in the distance as you feel your body being dragged, his mask never slipping. Eyes ever cold.

Finally, just barely, you find the elusive letters you were looking for, 'no,' "No!" and scream it over and over again; as loud as your voice allows; as fast as you can gather air in your lungs.

You do not stop until a metal-clad kick shoots pain across the side of your head, and blackness envelopes your vision.


End file.
